To be sure, these are not for those who measure waterfalls by cubic metres per second or height of the drop. But for people, like me, who long for the soothing view—and sound—of a gentle stream making its way down a hill, Belgium has just the cure.

The ‘greatest’ waterfalls in Belgium, the Cascade du Bayehon, lies on the southern slope of the East Belgian highland, near the village of Longfaye.

The Internet states that this waterfall has a drop of nine meters. If that is true, my six-year-old son is nearly three meters tall. That would surprise me, but who am I to say.

In any case, let me not fret about technicalities. It is a waterfall; a unique, adequately sized and impeccably shaped waterfall.

Second to, below—nor indeed above—any other waterfall.

This photo concludes my end-of-the-year photo-tribute to Belgium. I have found places here that soothes all my longing for Norwegian nature, and much else besides that is unique to Belgium.

The eight places I’ve chosen to share, have in some way, shape or form lifted my spirits this year. Through the many interactions I have enjoyed with you, I have learned of more places; places that are sure to contribute to the beauty of life in Belgium in years to come.

From incoming Christmas and New Year greetings, I notice that many are happy to see the end of 2020. I, too, am glad to cast off this year’s shackles, but not to throw out the good with the evil.

This year’s extraordinary circumstances gave me the ‘push’ I needed to explore attractions closer to home, and I have found these to be many and bountiful. My eyes have been opened to a wealth of beauty, formerly hidden from me by my ignorance, and for that, I shall be eternally grateful.

So, goodbye, 2020, I shall remember you. Hello, 2021, I hope you bring good things with you.

Growing up in Norway, Christmas Day was usually wildly anti-climactic. We opened presents on Christmas Eve, and by the 25th, the euphoria of the previous night’s bonanza had died. Only the lingering self-righteous disappointment over unfulfilled wishes remained.

Convention in my village dictated that the day must be spent with family.

I had just spent ONE evening with them, and while there was nothing wrong with them as such, the concept of being OBLIGED to enjoy their company was distasteful.

I longed for nothing so much as to see my friends, neighbours, or anybody, really, as long as they were not family.

In time, a grudging acceptance that a short walk was permissible in the afternoon developed. But it had to fit between two of the extraordinary number of meals taken on that day. Consequently, I was confined to my immediate surroundings. That forced me to learn to appreciate living close to nature.

Since March this year, life has had much in common with my childhood’s Christmas Day, except, I live in Brussels—not close to nature. Luckily, though, I live near a park.

There is something about the urban park; the sudden presence of green among the wreckage of what humanity curiously has chosen to call progress.

But is the park a satisfactory substitute for nature?

My younger self would have protested wildly against such blasphemy. But my older, possibly wiser, but certainly more battle-worn self has come to hold more pragmatic views of things.

Whatever the urban park may be, it is undoubtedly better than NO nature.

So, come March; I began walking in Woluwe Park every day. Soon I walked every day AND every night, and when I didn’t walk, I bicycled.

As time passed, I learned the proper place of every loose rock, every broken branch, and a good number of dead leaves. If anything changed from one day to the next, I took it as a personal affront.

While it may have set off a dormant streak of OCD in me, I firmly believe Woluwe Park to have been essential in keeping up my spirits this year.

Merry Christmas, Woluwe Saint-Pierre!

Until this year, Belgium had been more of a ‘base camp’ than a place where I spent my free time. This year changed that. Suddenly unable to travel ‘outside’, it became necessary to seek refuge from the everyday-routine domestically.

I have long been lamenting the lack of mountains in Belgium. But, one cannot in good conscience hold a country accountable for its topography.

This year, through a forced change of perspective, I have started to recognise Belgium for the many things it HAS —rather than grumble about the few things it HAS NOT.

Or at least for the most part that is true.

There are aspects to Belgium that have made me realise certain qualities that I took for granted while growing up in Norway. But, lest you mistake my intent, I hasten to point out that those qualities are attributable to nature rather than culture.

Belgium is almost wholly ‘tamed’: every surface suitable for cultivation or construction has been farmed or built. What nature is left is the parts in between.

Norway has less than half the population, more than twelve times the land area and consist, for the most part, of land that is too steep, too snowy, too cold, too rainy or too distant to be economically attractive.

Consequently, in times of controlled movement, Norway offers more nature per inhabitant than Belgium. But that is not to the detriment of natural Belgium, nor the self-aggrandisement of Norwegians. In time, and much to my dismay, I am sure we will manage to subjugate most of our nature, too.

However, to usher out an unusual year, I wish to celebrate Belgian nature each day until the new year’s bells chime.

Today, I go back to summer and two places on the Semois River: Tombeau de Geant, seen from Botassart, and Frahan, seen from Rochehaut.

The walk from Botassart to Bouillon comes highly recommended and did much to revive my spirits this year.

And why not kayak back down?